


Mon Dieu

by lovemyway (vesper93)



Series: Stolen Moments [2]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, Desire, Dirty Thoughts, Fluff, Frustration, Longing, Masturbation, Multi, Stolen Moments, Voyeurism, Want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 08:06:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17096966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesper93/pseuds/lovemyway
Summary: Oliver is left alone whilst Elio is in the attic with Marzia. He overthinks things, and then he overhears things.





	Mon Dieu

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gasolineandgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gasolineandgold/gifts).



> This 'Stolen Moment' was suggested by gasolineandgold - I hope I've done it justice for you lovely! xxx
> 
> This is number 5 in my 'Stolen Moments' series. So far we've had: 
> 
> \- Elio and Oliver in the garden, after they (finally) get it together (Kill Me Slowly)  
> \- The lead up to midnight from Oliver's perspective (Three MInutes To Midnight)  
> \- The first time Elio tops (Just Peachy)  
> \- Oliver's POV on the morning after (Worship Me In The Daylight)  
> \- Oliver's thoughts whilst Elio is with Marzia (Mon Dieu)
> 
> Are there any other moments you would like to see? I've had a few other suggestions, but I'm always happy to take prompts, and if I like the idea I'll run with it and write it! Let me know in the comments... 
> 
> If I don't post anything else before (which is unlikely tbh, I'm hoping to get a chapter of Above All Else out tomorrow), then have a very lovely Christmas/holidays everyone!
> 
> V  
> xxx

Oliver kicked at the pebble on the ground, making it roll into the grass beside the makeshift path, a cliché of moodiness if ever there was one. And the problem was that he had absolutely no one to blame but himself. Kicking the pebble was a preferable alternative to kicking himself, even if that would be somewhat difficult with any particular effect.  

Elio had opened himself up like a book that day at the berm, and rather than reaching over to devour the pages, he had snapped it shut after reading only the first line. And now someone else had taken him. That was why he was furious with himself; no one would leave Elio on the shelf long, and he’d been stupid enough to walk on by after only glancing at the cover. It was his fault that he was now in someone else’s arms, and not in his.

He couldn’t decide if it was better or worse that those arms belonged to a girl. The thought had been going around his mind for some time now. Either way they weren’t _his_ arms, and that was making him utterly furious.

He was on his own in the orchard behind the house, ever since he’d snapped at Anchise to leave him alone when the gardener had approached him to discuss fertilization methods for pear trees. He’d have to find the old man later and apologise; he didn’t deserve his razor tongue. He had no idea what was going on, and even if he did, it wasn’t his fault. Oliver shouldn’t have snapped at him. The guilt about that was just making him even more annoyed with himself. He couldn’t stay still for long, and he was wandering back and forth between the trees, wondering what he was going to do with the rest of the day.

He supposed he could go and find Chiara. That gave him a bitter twist of satisfaction in his gut; it would almost be like tit for tat. He _knew_ what Elio was doing right now with Marzia, surely it was well within his rights to go and do the same thing with her sister. The thing that Elio had thought he was doing all along. And yet after the moment satisfaction had flooded through his body, it was quickly followed by a realisation that it wouldn’t help, along with a feeling of disgust at himself. It wouldn’t make him feel better, it wouldn’t be fair to Chiara, and would probably only make Elio think he was total asshole. He probably wouldn’t even be able to get it up for Chiara, he mused. His mind was so preoccupied elsewhere, and on a form so totally different to hers. The thought of her body didn’t do a lot for him.

It was the hottest part of the day; probably just past three in the afternoon, so he knew that he had about nine hours to get through. Elio had reached out to him, pushing that scrap of paper under his door with a few hastily scrawled feelings on it in pencil. Elio hadn’t been in his room when Oliver had spotted it, otherwise he might have just ripped open the intervening door there and then, and done… _what?_ Well, whatever Elio had wanted him to do. Instead he’d written back, ‘ _Grow up, I’ll see you at midnight_ ’. He’d tried to sound forthright; he’d wanted to seem in control of the situation, when in reality his heart had nearly leapt out of his chest at the message; Elio was giving him yet another chance. It was one he probably didn’t deserve, but this time he was going to grab it with both hands.

Why had he put midnight? Why had he not said “in an hour” or “at five pm”? Why was he torturing himself by making himself wait until midnight? It had given Elio the afternoon’s tranquil laziness to fall once again into Marzia’s arms. This wasn’t his first time with the girl. He’d said so himself, at breakfast yesterday. He’d said they’d fooled about the previous evening by the lake. And Oliver had made a joke about it. He wondered if Samuel had seen through the thinly veiled attempt at humour, and the speed at which he left the breakfast table afterwards. Probably. That man didn’t miss much.

He couldn’t decide how Elio being with Marzia made him feel. He wasn’t jealous, per say, it was more like a sharp awareness of an absence deep inside, that before he had been able to hide from himself until he came here. There was an ache within him that he’d been able to soothe by burying himself in his work, or even by occasionally having sex with others. Not out here though. He knew that Elio thought that he was screwing most of B., but he wasn’t. Sure, he’d kissed Chiara, but as soon as her hands had started to wander down his body, he’d gently but firmly pulled back, desisting from her efforts. She’d not been all that upset by it, had simply shrugged, kissed him on the cheek, and with a wiggle of her fingers had disappeared into the night on her way home. Whatever anyone thought about Chiara, she wasn’t the sort of woman who was going to let a man make her feel upset for more than a couple of moments.

He almost found it sweet that Elio had turned to Marzia. It was clear that he was fighting with how he was feeling; whether that was for him, or just his hormones in general, it didn’t matter; his teenage brain was on complete overdrive. And Marzia was there; and she was pretty. Oliver might not be attracted to her himself, but he wasn’t blind, he could see why Elio would want her. It was only natural that they would turn together; they were both new to this, and could test the waters without fear of being swept away by the current.

And yet, here he was, asking Elio to dive into the deepest ocean, face up to exactly what he was feeling, and for them to lay it bare.

Because whilst he didn’t know what he felt about Elio being with Marzia, he now knew exactly what he felt for Elio himself. He was enchanted by the boy; by that intelligent, fey, talented, smart-mouthed, slip of a thing. He’d charmed him almost utterly, and he found his eyes drawn to the boy whenever he was around. He liked watching his hands especially, how they moved when he spoke, or danced across the keys of the piano or on the strings of his guitar. From the second or third night he’d been drawn to thinking about his hands in very different circumstances. As he’d wrapped his hand around his own cock, he imagined what it was look like if Elio was doing just that; his elegant, delicate fingers undertaking something so base, so debauched. It was an intoxicating thought. He’d known within those first few days that he was utterly lost, and he tried desperately to not allow the other boy to get lost with him; to push him back towards safety and certainty.

And in doing so he’d arrived at this hot afternoon, where inevitability was racing towards them both at midnight. And yet, first, he had to endure the fact that Elio was tumbled somewhere, with someone else. As he walked, and kicked at another pebble, he figured it _was_ probably better that that person was female and not male. It made it different somehow. As if he could separate the two in his mind.

His feet had carried him towards the sheds and outhouses, to some of the more tumbling buildings around the main house; some of which were linked, some of which weren’t, and looked as if they had been erected in a fit of excitement, before being abandoned before being finished. He wondered who had built the original house, and what they had in mind. It was clear that buildings and rooms had been added over the decades and centuries since that first house had been constructed. There wasn’t much of that original structure still standing, with bits having been torn down or changed over the years to create the house as it was now. It was a wonderful warren of rooms and spaces; some with uses, others with absolutely no function whatsoever.

There was a tinkling sound as a breeze blew through one of the windchimes that Anchise hung up to ward against evil spirits. But as Oliver looked to see the source of the noise, he realised that there was no wind whatsoever, the trees were still, and the wind chime hung limp and unmoving. The noise came again, and he realised it was the gentle noise of a girl giggling with delight. He froze, and the skin on his back prickled, goose-flesh appearing despite the heat of the sun.

He instantly felt like an unwelcome voyeur, despite the fact that he couldn’t see anything, and had only heard the noise twice. He looked upwards, and saw an old green shutter was slightly ajar, opening on a room that he had never been in; at least three floors up. He would have no idea how to get there if he were asked. Then the noise changed, and became the tiniest breathy moan paired with a squeak of surprise. This noise drifted down several times into his unwillingly listening ears.

He wanted to tear himself away, wanted to stride away from this place and erase his mind of the noise, but somehow he remained rooted to the spot, his breath caught in his throat as his ears strained. What was he listening for? Did he think if he listened hard enough he would hear the movement of Elio’s hips? The slick sound made by both of their bodies as their sweat soaked forms joined together? The sound of skin slapping against skin?

Would he be able to hear that anyway? Would Elio fuck Marzia hard enough to make that noise, or would he be more cautious and gentle, aware that this was only her second time making love? Is that what they were doing? Were they making love, or were they just having sex?

Then he heard another sound, a deeper moan, a curse caught in the back of a throat, stuck with overwhelming sensation. He knew that voice, of course he did. _Fuck_. His brain was short-circuiting, just from that sound alone.

‘ _Mon Dieu…_ ’

That was all he heard, and he knew he had to move, _now_. He forced his feet to lift from the path, to walk away, looking around to check no-one was around, before shoving his hand down his shorts and rearranging his cock to make it more comfortable to walk.

He only made it about fifty metres, deeper into the woods that surrounded the house, before he’d shoved his shorts down, just past his weeping prick, and had taken himself in his hand. His mind was running at a million miles a minute as he imagined the face that Elio made as he whispered ‘ _mon dieu_ ’ into the column of Marzia’s neck. His cock would be slick with his own arousal and hers as his pale hips moved in tandem with her body, her feet wrapped around his back as he fucked her, those little squeaks and moans falling from her own mouth. The curls at the back of his neck would be slightly damp from sweat.

But Elio, _Elio_. His face would be beautiful when pleasure rushed through him, and Oliver’s hand was quick over his cock as his imagination ran wild with the possibilities of how he would make his boy feel that way, and make him swear not just by his own god, but by every god, deity, and saint he knew the name of. It took only moments, and the imagined image of that brunette head thrown back in ecstasy, that bottom lip bitten between perfect teeth as he reached his peak. And that was all it took; Oliver came onto the ground, spilling his own ecstasy between his fingers as he leaned heavily on a tree trunk, to get his breath back.

 _I’ll see you at midnight_ , he’d said. Yes, he would. And tonight, if Elio would let him, he would take him to an altar that they could both worship at and make the boy see the face of God. He would worship him, if he was allowed, leaving a prayer against every single freckle or mark on his skin. _Fuck_ , he just wanted him to cry out his pleasure again, for Elio to shudder and mewl as his body tightened against his own, his form limp with desire. Oliver would show him true desire, true pleasure, and his body would forever have the memory of their moments imprinted upon it.  

Oliver blew out a breath between his lips as he righted his clothes, wiping his hand on an unfortunate patch of moss on the tree trunk. _Midnight_. Right, now he just needed something to kill the time between now and then, because if he thought one more time about Elio’s mouth forming those words once more, he would never make it out of these woods.


End file.
